It was interesting to spend a week away from a home I'd only lived in two weeks before I left, and away from a rural life I'd only been living for about 5 weeks in total.
I don't think I could have coped with most of my trip if I'd been still living in the city. My journey to and from WOMAD was a zig-zagging sales trip around the North Island. I showed my work at over a dozen galleries and came home with a big list of orders to fill. Last year selling my work felt like torture- I mostly avoided any attempt because of how hard it felt to cold call on retailers. This time my experience was entirely positive- I even enjoyed meeting the buyers who, for whatever reason, aren't going to be stocking my work right away.
I also enjoyed being in the big crowds at WOMAD- something I've increasingly avoided in recent years.
Looking at the changes in my life: creative solitude, working full-time on my art, living far away from cars and concrete and crowds, spending lots of time with trees... these things feed my soul and build up my resiliance. I think I'm finally able to enjoy bursts of intense social contact and I'm able to take myself and my work out into the world with confidence because I spend so much time alone with the green.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Honey I'm home! (from WOMAD)
It's wonderful to be back in my quiet little valley where today the clouds are the fastest moving things in my my line of sight. But I had a great trip away too, though it was full-on the whole time.
WOMAD was wonderful... I was exposed to lots of new (to me) music that I will be seeking out more of, including Mweya, a very blonde Marimba band from Motueka (NZ). It's hard to pick out favourite acts, because I enjoyed almost everything I saw, and am regretting almost everything I missed (but I had to have some breaks from sensory overload). It was the whole atmosphere that made it a fantastic experience: the mellow diversity of the crowd, the smooth and comfortable logistics like toilets and camping, the perfect weather, the idyllic setting in New Plymouth's beautiful Brooklands Park... I knew so many people there, both those who I'd planned to meet up with, and the almost hourly encounter with some long lost friend. I very quickly started feeling like WOMAD was my whanau and I had come home.
I also had fun interviewing the wonderful Yair Dalal, an Iraqi-Israeli musician. The interview will appear in the New Zealand Jewish Chronicle (along with photos by Katrina Ching) so I won't give away the goodies here. Suffice to say I love his Jewish-Arabic music and he is a intelligent, spiritual and interesting man. Follow the title link to hear some of his sounds.
WOMAD was wonderful... I was exposed to lots of new (to me) music that I will be seeking out more of, including Mweya, a very blonde Marimba band from Motueka (NZ). It's hard to pick out favourite acts, because I enjoyed almost everything I saw, and am regretting almost everything I missed (but I had to have some breaks from sensory overload). It was the whole atmosphere that made it a fantastic experience: the mellow diversity of the crowd, the smooth and comfortable logistics like toilets and camping, the perfect weather, the idyllic setting in New Plymouth's beautiful Brooklands Park... I knew so many people there, both those who I'd planned to meet up with, and the almost hourly encounter with some long lost friend. I very quickly started feeling like WOMAD was my whanau and I had come home.
I also had fun interviewing the wonderful Yair Dalal, an Iraqi-Israeli musician. The interview will appear in the New Zealand Jewish Chronicle (along with photos by Katrina Ching) so I won't give away the goodies here. Suffice to say I love his Jewish-Arabic music and he is a intelligent, spiritual and interesting man. Follow the title link to hear some of his sounds.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Off track
My heartfelt wishes for a digital camera donation did not fall on deaf ears. My darling mum, bless her, clipped 7 coupons from the Herald, paid them $25, and sent me a digital camera the size of a credit card. She will receive a packet of new little books next week when I get back from WOMAD.
It's lucky the camera is so cute to look at as that somewhat redeems its functional shortcomings. The main challenge so far is that its aim is not true but I have figured out if that you position the centre of the picture you want in the lower left corner of the view finder, the result is more or less meaningful. In terms of focus and lighting and resolution it's probably good enough to illustrate this blog, its primary purpose. Except that all of the photos I took on my walk this afternoon mysteriously disappeared out of the camera's memory before I could upload them to the laptop.
So you just have to imagine the lush bush scenes, lichen covered old fence posts, and babbling brooks that I was going to show you from my particularly thrilling and wet walk today. Wet because, though I waited until the rain had stopped, I couldn't resist leaving the track to wade through long wet grass, rockhop up streams and plunge into cunningly hidden swamps. Thrilling because I finally got out into some 'real bush' out the back of the farm, off the track, diverse but not terribly dense given the cattle traffic.
Not long after I inspected some pig-rooted ground came the most exciting moment. I emerged from the bush and decided to try a short cut through a hilly paddock. This led me to be faced with a wall of gorse meeting a 10 metre drop to a rocky stream. I was contemplating my options when I heard a very pig-like growling from behind me- the only apparent way out from my little impasse. I couldn't actually see a pig (the only thing that really scares me in the bush) but I started to whistle bravely and tunelessly and went forward into the gorse... Actually I managed to tiptoe my way between the gorse and the cliff for about 50 metres by ducking under some prickly totora. What exhilaration to emerge, as I had hoped, into a familiar paddock bordering the main farm track.
Tomorrow I leave for WOMAD and a tour of North Island craft galleries. Transmission may be interrupted but I will be back on board next week for sure, with the further adventures of Meliors: Book Artist and Bush Whacker.
It's lucky the camera is so cute to look at as that somewhat redeems its functional shortcomings. The main challenge so far is that its aim is not true but I have figured out if that you position the centre of the picture you want in the lower left corner of the view finder, the result is more or less meaningful. In terms of focus and lighting and resolution it's probably good enough to illustrate this blog, its primary purpose. Except that all of the photos I took on my walk this afternoon mysteriously disappeared out of the camera's memory before I could upload them to the laptop.
So you just have to imagine the lush bush scenes, lichen covered old fence posts, and babbling brooks that I was going to show you from my particularly thrilling and wet walk today. Wet because, though I waited until the rain had stopped, I couldn't resist leaving the track to wade through long wet grass, rockhop up streams and plunge into cunningly hidden swamps. Thrilling because I finally got out into some 'real bush' out the back of the farm, off the track, diverse but not terribly dense given the cattle traffic.
Not long after I inspected some pig-rooted ground came the most exciting moment. I emerged from the bush and decided to try a short cut through a hilly paddock. This led me to be faced with a wall of gorse meeting a 10 metre drop to a rocky stream. I was contemplating my options when I heard a very pig-like growling from behind me- the only apparent way out from my little impasse. I couldn't actually see a pig (the only thing that really scares me in the bush) but I started to whistle bravely and tunelessly and went forward into the gorse... Actually I managed to tiptoe my way between the gorse and the cliff for about 50 metres by ducking under some prickly totora. What exhilaration to emerge, as I had hoped, into a familiar paddock bordering the main farm track.
Tomorrow I leave for WOMAD and a tour of North Island craft galleries. Transmission may be interrupted but I will be back on board next week for sure, with the further adventures of Meliors: Book Artist and Bush Whacker.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Blissing out
Yesterday I drove out to the Tutukaka Coast for the first time. Even on a grey day it was easy to see why it is such a tourist magnet, especially when there were hardly any tourists around. My destination was Whales Bay where I had been promised a massage. I went exploring first, down the steep track to the beach which is a croissant of golden sand fringed with pohutokawa and nikau, edged with black rocks where people were snorkeling but mostly just gently lapping of water to sand. Even the school trip worth of kids couldn't spoil the enchantment and when they left I sank down onto the silky sand and dozed off.
Climbing back up the hill I couldn't imagine feeling more relaxed but it just got better. Louisa Sinclair welcomed me into her family's log cabin on the cliff top, and turned my back to jelly. She learned massage from her Cook Islands whanau and had lots of new and different techniques that I hadn't felt before (and I consider myself a bit of a massage connoisseur). I felt like I had a total spa experience (not that I've ever had a total spa experience) with the beautiful surroundings, the carefully chosen oils and music, the sensitive and healing touch. And all this in exchange for a Boob Book. I feel very very lucky.
Climbing back up the hill I couldn't imagine feeling more relaxed but it just got better. Louisa Sinclair welcomed me into her family's log cabin on the cliff top, and turned my back to jelly. She learned massage from her Cook Islands whanau and had lots of new and different techniques that I hadn't felt before (and I consider myself a bit of a massage connoisseur). I felt like I had a total spa experience (not that I've ever had a total spa experience) with the beautiful surroundings, the carefully chosen oils and music, the sensitive and healing touch. And all this in exchange for a Boob Book. I feel very very lucky.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Chilling out
One of the trees by the creek is starting to turn yellow: winter is coming to the winterless north, but oh so gently. I had hoped to write how I was using the sun oven to cook up windfall apples from our orchard but they had to go on the stovetop because the famous northland rain is floating down like it can't quite make the effort to form drops. And the sun which rose so promisingly in pink and gold bands across the hills this morning has disappeared and I am almost cold, chilly enough to put on long trousers for this first time since I moved up here. But not cold enough to light a fire, and besides the chimney hasn't been swept yet and I have a feeling swallows are nesting up there. The clouds are wrapping the hills which wrap the valley which wraps my little cottage and today feels like being cocooned in dandelion silk or possum fur, or downy feathers.
Debut
I made my Whangarei debut this weekend reading at a poetry event at the Mokaba on the Town Basin. I was the youngest reader by some decades (and I'm no spring chicken myself). I was also in a small minority not reading rhyming verse. Gardens were a popular theme. There was one quite risque poem and some political satire. Almost no one read for too long. Despite (or perhaps because of) my handicaps of age and free verse I was very warmly received and invited to attend both of the monthly poetry groups that meet in Whangarei.
I couldn't help but compare it to the last open mike I read at in upper Cuba St, Wellington where the most memorable performers ranted explicitly at length about sex and drugs. I'm not sure where I fit into the New Zealand poetry scene but if I do have a niche I haven't found it yet. Happily in my experience, whatever the cultural context of such poetry events, they are overwhelming supportive and affirmative of every poet.
This was also the weekend of the Artisan's Fair which started at 7am. That is quite early when one has been partying it up with the Whangarei poetry scene the night before (and have to drive in from the wopwops). It was worth it though, much more successful than my previous market experience. The weather was perfect and I got a prime spot under a gum tree that occasionally dropped leaves artistically onto my table and next to a massage practitioner so that together we could create a little oasis of contemplative calm in the busy market.
The Optimistic Heart continued its golden run as my best seller in every situation, but the wee books I had made especially for the market did well also. There is one copy of 'Wavelets' left for sale- with coral on the cover ($15). The Houghton Bay book didn't do so well- I think the surfing Cook Strait joke probably doesn't make so much sense in the 'City of a Hundred Beaches' of endless warm waves. And, not surprisingly, the Boob Book got lots of attention and laughs. However, the only buyer for it has taken me up on my offer of barter and I am swopping her the book for a relaxation massage this afternoon- it seems kind of appropriate!
I couldn't help but compare it to the last open mike I read at in upper Cuba St, Wellington where the most memorable performers ranted explicitly at length about sex and drugs. I'm not sure where I fit into the New Zealand poetry scene but if I do have a niche I haven't found it yet. Happily in my experience, whatever the cultural context of such poetry events, they are overwhelming supportive and affirmative of every poet.
This was also the weekend of the Artisan's Fair which started at 7am. That is quite early when one has been partying it up with the Whangarei poetry scene the night before (and have to drive in from the wopwops). It was worth it though, much more successful than my previous market experience. The weather was perfect and I got a prime spot under a gum tree that occasionally dropped leaves artistically onto my table and next to a massage practitioner so that together we could create a little oasis of contemplative calm in the busy market.
The Optimistic Heart continued its golden run as my best seller in every situation, but the wee books I had made especially for the market did well also. There is one copy of 'Wavelets' left for sale- with coral on the cover ($15). The Houghton Bay book didn't do so well- I think the surfing Cook Strait joke probably doesn't make so much sense in the 'City of a Hundred Beaches' of endless warm waves. And, not surprisingly, the Boob Book got lots of attention and laughs. However, the only buyer for it has taken me up on my offer of barter and I am swopping her the book for a relaxation massage this afternoon- it seems kind of appropriate!
Thursday, March 03, 2005
A Beatrix Potter moment
On today's gold star afternoon walk I spent several minutes in a staring competition with four home-alone baby bunnnies. They lined up outside their burrow (at my eye level in a pock marked clay bank held together with totora roots) watching me as intently as I was watching them, twitching their little noses. Maybe they were too young to be scared of me, or perhaps they knew that I am no threat, especially in the face of such cuteness.
Low
Eating toast on the deck, watching my landlady move cattle around the farm... they make a lot of noise, those pregnant cows... not so much mooing or lowing as bellowing and groaning. They started up with the cowtalk when she moved the calves to the paddock next door to the cows-I thought maybe they were the joyful greetings of long lost kin. Then as the big beasts filed past the orchard they kvetched and grizzled, assembling outside my house, they leaned over the gate to get a good look at my place, and one in particular met my eye as it stretched its neck in a forceful cry. Eventually they carried on up the race and round the hill to chew down a paddock so overgrown that when I walked through it a couple of days ago the grass was chest high. Apparently there is some concern that they might get the wobbles from eating the seed heads.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Streaming
Yesterday was my first trip into town for four days. To prepare myself for hours of hot driving in circles I decided to go for a dip in the stream, first.
I walked round to the concrete ford where there is quite a deep shady swimming hole I had spotted earlier in the week. After a cooler day of rain the water was a bit bracing and my skinnydip quite quick. But on the other side of the fence across the stream, sunlight glinted and I decided to try walking back to the house along the stream bed.
The water was ankle to knee deep most of the way and delightfully cool in the sultry heat of the sunlight. There were many little fishy creatures darting around and patches of tired looking watercress. I passed a couple of swimming holes which would have been more enticing if less muddy or slimy. There is a lot of slime, apparently seasonal, caused by the sunshine. There is a lot of mud too, churned up by cattle.
Although I'm pretty sure I was the only human around for many miles that morning, I did have some interesting encounters with cows. Unfortunately that stream runs through a paddock where a herd of very pregnant cows are grazing. At midday they were very sensibly hanging out in a shady area by the stream and were a little concerned at my passage. Unfortunately they would move away in the same direction as I was heading so we met up several times, before I decided to leave the (suddenly quite deep) stream to them and head out across the paddocks for home.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Lotsa books!
It's been a productive few days here at Purua. I have finished a new book, made four copies of an old one, and almost finished two other new ones.
I think the new book is delightful and funny, it makes me laugh out loud when I play with it. It's called Boob Book, and is almost a 5cm cube when closed. Inside each page has a line drawing of a pair of breasts and a different word for breasts. It is bound on two spines, similar to a book called Tumbling Blocks by Claire Van Vliet, so it moves in your hands like a toy. I know/know of so many women who have/have had breast cancer and it's too easy to start thinking of breasts as problem areas. Also in the context of increasingly common cosmetic surgery suggesting that many women are unhappy with their breasts, I wanted to playfully, lightly, happily celebrate this wonderful part of our bodies. I hope this book will appeal to anyone who has/has had/ enjoys/wants breasts. (And watch this space, as I am planning a second breast-themed book called Extravagant Promises).
The old book I have been making up today is Houghton Bay, about surfers in Cook Strait. It's a little book that I'm hoping will go well at the Artisan's Fair this weekend. 18cm x 2.5cm, the cover is shiny blue, the end papers silver, and the accoridian fold pages are printed on tracing paper so the punchline of the poem is almost visible as a misty hint before you get to the end.
The two almost finished new books are both part of the bush book series: Waitawheta Valley and Wairere Falls. They are both about walks in the Kaimai mountain range that runs between the Hauraki Plains and the Bay of Plenty. The insides are all done, I just need to do the covers.
I'm sorry I can't post any photos yet (any reader who gives me a digital camera will get lots of lovely free books!) but Katrina Ching, who took many of the beautiful photos on my website, is going to get all my books on film when I am in Wellington in a fortnight- soon after that I will update the galleries on my website with all the new pictures.
I think the new book is delightful and funny, it makes me laugh out loud when I play with it. It's called Boob Book, and is almost a 5cm cube when closed. Inside each page has a line drawing of a pair of breasts and a different word for breasts. It is bound on two spines, similar to a book called Tumbling Blocks by Claire Van Vliet, so it moves in your hands like a toy. I know/know of so many women who have/have had breast cancer and it's too easy to start thinking of breasts as problem areas. Also in the context of increasingly common cosmetic surgery suggesting that many women are unhappy with their breasts, I wanted to playfully, lightly, happily celebrate this wonderful part of our bodies. I hope this book will appeal to anyone who has/has had/ enjoys/wants breasts. (And watch this space, as I am planning a second breast-themed book called Extravagant Promises).
The old book I have been making up today is Houghton Bay, about surfers in Cook Strait. It's a little book that I'm hoping will go well at the Artisan's Fair this weekend. 18cm x 2.5cm, the cover is shiny blue, the end papers silver, and the accoridian fold pages are printed on tracing paper so the punchline of the poem is almost visible as a misty hint before you get to the end.
The two almost finished new books are both part of the bush book series: Waitawheta Valley and Wairere Falls. They are both about walks in the Kaimai mountain range that runs between the Hauraki Plains and the Bay of Plenty. The insides are all done, I just need to do the covers.
I'm sorry I can't post any photos yet (any reader who gives me a digital camera will get lots of lovely free books!) but Katrina Ching, who took many of the beautiful photos on my website, is going to get all my books on film when I am in Wellington in a fortnight- soon after that I will update the galleries on my website with all the new pictures.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Walking
I have been going for a different walk from my new place every day since I've been here. Talking to my neighbours on the same driveway as me, who are also keen walkers, it sounds like I will never run out of new places to explore on foot from home. They have been here three years and are still finding new walks in the hills behind our houses.
Last night I followed the main track past the pines but following Cathy's suggestion soon left it, to follow the stream through paddocks. There are lots and lots of totora everywhere around here, mostly covered in droopy grey lichen. The stream has some really pretty bits cutting through mossy, ferny rock, babbling over stones. There are a couple of goodlooking water holes where I intend to go for a dip while the weather is still hot. Apparently the water is very clean, good enough to drink and even better than the rain water which supplies our houses. Most of the paddocks are overgrown and weedy because the previous owner wasn't running enough stock.
My neighbours, who have welcomed me very warmly (I spent last evening drinking bubbly with them), have offered to take me on a big walk today, showing me lots of good tracks and taking me to the top of the big hill to get an overview of the area..
Later...
It was a great walk... much more adventurous than I would have attempted on my own so soon. But I was very sad to find a dead kiwi at the top of the hill. Obviously only recently killed and not eaten by whatever killed it, the big adult's (chicken-sized) only visible injury was a small patch without feathers and with scratch marks on it. I've never seen a real kiwi in the wild before, (for non-NZ readers, the kiwi is an endangered species, and nocturnal and very shy) so I was sad but also very interested to be close enough to touch one.
Last night I followed the main track past the pines but following Cathy's suggestion soon left it, to follow the stream through paddocks. There are lots and lots of totora everywhere around here, mostly covered in droopy grey lichen. The stream has some really pretty bits cutting through mossy, ferny rock, babbling over stones. There are a couple of goodlooking water holes where I intend to go for a dip while the weather is still hot. Apparently the water is very clean, good enough to drink and even better than the rain water which supplies our houses. Most of the paddocks are overgrown and weedy because the previous owner wasn't running enough stock.
My neighbours, who have welcomed me very warmly (I spent last evening drinking bubbly with them), have offered to take me on a big walk today, showing me lots of good tracks and taking me to the top of the big hill to get an overview of the area..
Later...
It was a great walk... much more adventurous than I would have attempted on my own so soon. But I was very sad to find a dead kiwi at the top of the hill. Obviously only recently killed and not eaten by whatever killed it, the big adult's (chicken-sized) only visible injury was a small patch without feathers and with scratch marks on it. I've never seen a real kiwi in the wild before, (for non-NZ readers, the kiwi is an endangered species, and nocturnal and very shy) so I was sad but also very interested to be close enough to touch one.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Rat Story Part 2
Sensitive vegetarians and rat lovers skip this one.
After my awful night with the rat I couldn't bear to eat anything in the house, even if there was no way the rat could have touched it. So by the time I got into town for my rat trap shopping I was pretty hungry, and strangely craving red meat (I think in reaction to all the adreneline residue still in my body). I bought a rat trap and a fly swat. I ate a steak at a steakhouse where I was the only diner (it was good). I bought a box of dusty old jars at an op shop. I went to the Warehouse and consoled myself with that peculiar form of discount retail therapy that the Warehouse does so well -and in the US Target and Walmart- they may be evil but they know what makes you feel good. I bought a rat proof rubbish bin and a vacuum cleaner for the rat poop and dead flies. I got seriously lost in Whangarei on the way home so I bought a bottle of vodka.
Town took all afternoon but when I got back to Purua, it was still a beautiful 27 degrees at 5pm. I had a stiff drink and set the rat trap (with difficulty and lots more adreneline surges everytime I missed and it went slam). I went for a long walk up over the hill and down into the next valley (Riponui). I came home again and there was a dead rat which I put outside. I reset the trap and started feeling better about living here. I slept long and deep. No more rats so far. Today I can make some books.
After my awful night with the rat I couldn't bear to eat anything in the house, even if there was no way the rat could have touched it. So by the time I got into town for my rat trap shopping I was pretty hungry, and strangely craving red meat (I think in reaction to all the adreneline residue still in my body). I bought a rat trap and a fly swat. I ate a steak at a steakhouse where I was the only diner (it was good). I bought a box of dusty old jars at an op shop. I went to the Warehouse and consoled myself with that peculiar form of discount retail therapy that the Warehouse does so well -and in the US Target and Walmart- they may be evil but they know what makes you feel good. I bought a rat proof rubbish bin and a vacuum cleaner for the rat poop and dead flies. I got seriously lost in Whangarei on the way home so I bought a bottle of vodka.
Town took all afternoon but when I got back to Purua, it was still a beautiful 27 degrees at 5pm. I had a stiff drink and set the rat trap (with difficulty and lots more adreneline surges everytime I missed and it went slam). I went for a long walk up over the hill and down into the next valley (Riponui). I came home again and there was a dead rat which I put outside. I reset the trap and started feeling better about living here. I slept long and deep. No more rats so far. Today I can make some books.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Rat
I was looking forward to waxing lyrical about how lovely it is to be in my new place... but that will have to wait. Most of my initial pleasure is currently being overshadowed by a rat. I knew there was going to be one because my new landlord tried to show me how to set the rat trap and figured out it was broken. How bad can one rat-night be I thought? Ha!
The rat woke me hourly as it systematically explored, tasted and defecated on everything I had brought into the house. The rubbish bag was the first casualty, and gave me my first glimpse of the bright eyed beast. Then a gastronomic tour of the pantry- taking a bite out of everything it could and really pigging out on the paprika. A clattering parade across all the dishes etc in my cupboards. A riffle through my handbag and wrestle with the chewing gum therein. A visit to the linen in the hot water cupboard and a circuit inside the washing machine.
Every hour or so I woke to the sound of the rat having fun with my stuff, turned on the light, got out of bed, stomped and shouted my way out of my bedroom in the hope that I wouldn't have to actually see the rat as I didn't even have a broom in the house I could brandish at it. But it always waited until it actually saw me before scurrying away (away as in sort of towards me) no doubt getting a good laugh from how I couldn't help but jump and shriek everytime I saw it. Then I would have another go at trying to anticipate what the rat might try to chew through next and where I could put those items out of rat's way. Then I would go back to bed, wait for the adreneline to stop surging through my body and try to ignore the little scurrying noises.
Eventually I would fall asleep- just long enough for a bad dream before the next rat encounter. Dreams of being assigned impossible tasks i.e. cleaning every tiny, dusty box in a huge, dirty cobwebby, rat-poopy warehouse; suddenly having to be substitute teacher for a rebellious 4th form science class; hiding the 'evidence' planted to frame me for a series of horrific murders; making my way through a dense jungle of scarey animals like pythons and camels... you get the idea.
Now I am going to drive the 30kms into town to buy a functional trap for the rat. And possibly some strong drink for me.
The rat woke me hourly as it systematically explored, tasted and defecated on everything I had brought into the house. The rubbish bag was the first casualty, and gave me my first glimpse of the bright eyed beast. Then a gastronomic tour of the pantry- taking a bite out of everything it could and really pigging out on the paprika. A clattering parade across all the dishes etc in my cupboards. A riffle through my handbag and wrestle with the chewing gum therein. A visit to the linen in the hot water cupboard and a circuit inside the washing machine.
Every hour or so I woke to the sound of the rat having fun with my stuff, turned on the light, got out of bed, stomped and shouted my way out of my bedroom in the hope that I wouldn't have to actually see the rat as I didn't even have a broom in the house I could brandish at it. But it always waited until it actually saw me before scurrying away (away as in sort of towards me) no doubt getting a good laugh from how I couldn't help but jump and shriek everytime I saw it. Then I would have another go at trying to anticipate what the rat might try to chew through next and where I could put those items out of rat's way. Then I would go back to bed, wait for the adreneline to stop surging through my body and try to ignore the little scurrying noises.
Eventually I would fall asleep- just long enough for a bad dream before the next rat encounter. Dreams of being assigned impossible tasks i.e. cleaning every tiny, dusty box in a huge, dirty cobwebby, rat-poopy warehouse; suddenly having to be substitute teacher for a rebellious 4th form science class; hiding the 'evidence' planted to frame me for a series of horrific murders; making my way through a dense jungle of scarey animals like pythons and camels... you get the idea.
Now I am going to drive the 30kms into town to buy a functional trap for the rat. And possibly some strong drink for me.
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